


Going To Georgia

by iamjacksblindrage



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:34:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamjacksblindrage/pseuds/iamjacksblindrage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes home to 221B.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going To Georgia

**Author's Note:**

> This little beauty is based on The Mountain Goats' "Going To Georgia." 
> 
> "The most remarkable thing about you standing in the doorway, is that it's you and that you're standing in the doorway and you smile as you ease the gun from my hand and I'm frozen with joy, right where I stand, the world throws its light underneath your hair, 40 miles from Atlanta, this is nowhere, going to Georgia."
> 
> Reapersun over on tumblr has made a little thing based on this same verse of the song, you can find that here ->http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/22374555546/the-most-remarkable-thing-about-you-standing-in

You look up from your newspaper and he's there.  All 6 feet of consulting detective, just lingering nervously in the doorway.  But no, that can't be him.  This intruder is an imposter, has to be.  Sherlock Holmes is dead and you were there to witness his suicide.  You drop the newspaper, striding across the room with your fury fueling you, and you draw your gun from where it stays, tucked into the waistband of your jeans.  The intruder raises his hands in surrender and he tilts head up to meet your gaze and you're utterly floored.  His face is gaunt and drained of color, save for the pink scar tissue and deep red wounds littering the exposed skin.  His hair is longer now, and not quite as curly.  But you meet his eyes, the ever-changing blue-green-grey of them and you stop.

"John?" That deep baritone rumbles, just slightly slurred by exhaustion.  He takes a step forward and gives you a weak smile and you can't move.  You should be punching him, or hell, more likely kissing him, but you're just stuck, staring up at the allegedly dead detective as he smiles at you.  You're vaguely aware of the weight of the Browning leaving your grasp, but still, you stand, frozen in your disbelief and joy.  

You stare, you can't help it.  Somehow, despite the injury, his face looks just as alien and beautiful as it did the last time you saw it, when you stormed out of the lab at Bart's three years ago.  And despite the dim morning light in the flat, his face is lit in all the right ways, across his cheeks and under his limp curls.  You notice his hair looks a bit more red than black now and somewhere in your mind, you wonder where he's been that would cause that.

Sherlock reaches out and grabs your shoulder and repeats your name.  And now you move.  You throw yourself forward, into his arms and hold on tight, sobbing loudly against his coat.  His arms wrap around you, holding you closely, and this is it.  This is right.  This is what you had been waiting for for three years.  

Sherlock's shoulders start shaking with sobs.  With his face pressed into your hair, you can feel his hot tears on your scalp and this only fuels your tears.

"I'm sorry, John.  I'm home now.  I'm home."


End file.
